Flashback
by Agent Ninety-Nine
Summary: Surveying his territory after reclaiming the Pridelands from Scar, Simba finds himself at the spot where his father died and an old wound is reopened.


'That moment in the gorge has become part of me. I shall have to live with it to the end of my life.'  
- Laurens van der Post, _Venture to the Interior_

The sun had set on Scar's reign and risen with the true king, Simba, in possession of the Pridelands. The sun had gone down red as blood and fire, but it came up pale and brave, shining white over a land cleansed and refreshed by the welcome rain and the return of its champion. 

And where was the King? As a wise leader should, he had risen before the sun to walk the borders of his territory. Both king and kingdom had suffered at the paws of Scar; Simba bore his uncle's clawmarks fresh from the previous evening's battle, but the land had been worn and abused for years by the hyaena influx and the long drought. It was a poor, scrubby patch now, but it was his. This was the land of his father, the place of his birth. He had fought for it and won. It would take time, perhaps years, for the Pridelands to recover fully. But Simba was here for keeps. He was home. 

The running lion cast a long shadow in the dawn. He jumped, capered sideways, rolled over and over in the ashy dust for joy. Every bush and rock held a long-forgotten memory of his childhood, and he exclaimed in delight at each discovery. 

"Perhaps - a little more - dignity, Sire?" puffed the hornbill who flapped dutifully behind him. "You _are_ the King. People will want to see you behave...regally?" He landed and cocked his head in a critical fashion. Simba was still so very, very young, with much to learn. Earning the respect of his subjects would not be easy. As for lying on his back like that with sticks and leaves in his fur and his mane flopping over his face - well, really! 

"Zazu." Simba blew the stray locks out of his eyes and grinned. "Remember when I was young and I said when I was king, I'd do whatever I wanted?" 

"Indeed I do, your Majesty," his major-domo sighed. "You were an absolutely incorrigible cub." He allowed himself a brief smile despite the severity of his tone. This grown lion still had much about him of the little boy Zazu nannied long ago. 

"Well, what I want is to make the Pridelands the paradise they used to be, and to rule the land wisely and well. _My way_." His deep-set eyes filled with determination, he stood, shook himself, and strode away to the east. 

"He never did take kindly to discipline," Zazu muttered sadly as he set off after Simba. "Wait for me, Sire! Your Majesty! Wait - _please_!" 

* * * * *

"Nala and I used to slide here," Simba said, gazing fondly at a sloping rock.   
"And very dangerous it was too. You might both have broken your necks, as I _frequently_ told you." Zazu, of course. 

Simba's slide now came barely halfway up his leg. He ran a paw along the smooth surface. 

"It's all coming back to me, Zazu. I was only half a lion before I came back here. All my history was wiped out. I didn't know who I was." He sniffed the wind and suddenly bounded off again on his journey of discovery. He had abandoned Zazu's ordered tour of inspection and ran as his mood and his memories took him. 

"I remember _this_...and I used to come _here_ a _lot_...and - whoa, what's over _there_?" 

To his great surprise, Simba felt Zazu grab his mane and try with all his avian strength to pull him back. 

"I don't think your Majesty is quite, ah, ready to go there yet," the hornbill said awkwardly, spreading his wings to block Simba's view. "Why don't you go and visit the cheetahs? They haven't had a formal greeting yet." 

"This is my land, I'll go wherever I want. Zazu, what's going on?" Half-laughing and half cross, the king tried to pass. But Zazu headed him off every time with feathery flapping and a hard beak. Eventually Simba gave up and looked his servant in the eye. 

"Zazu, remember: I am the King." 

It was said lightly, but there was power behind the words and for a moment Simba was the image of his father Mufasa. Zazu dropped his gaze and stood aside. 

Simba shrugged off the hornbill's strange behaviour and loped on. He knew this place was important - the feeling of familiarity was so strong, although for the moment he could not place it exactly. He couldn't wait to find out! 

The sight and the memory hit him simultaneously, so forceful and unexpected that all the breath went out of him and for several seconds he was unable to catch it back. At last he inhaled painfully, his pupils huge with shock and his body suddenly seeming too heavy to move. 

He stood on the edge of a sheer gorge, its high sides cracked and weathered. Unable to turn his eyes away, he stared down into the chasm. 

Nothing stirred below, not even an insect. But in Simba's mind the ground was shaking with the pounding of hooves, dust filled the air and an endless onslaught of maddened animals charged, blindly destroying everything in their path. 

Simba had been down there when the stampede came. He was just a cub then, a tiny creature lost among the huge bodies of the wildebeeste. His father - strong, mighty Mufasa - had come to save him, but had lost his own life. The King had died down there in the gorge, trampled by hooves and tossed by horns. And Simba had watched, unable to help. 

He was back there now. He saw it all again, every detail. It was like watching the shadow plays Rafiki performed with his fingers to amuse the cubs, making giraffe and elephants walk across a moonlit rock, but instead of shadows horribly clear images paraded before him. The moments before he knew for certain that his father was dead, when he scrambled down to help. The knowledge growing as he tugged and prodded the unresponding form that Mufasa was beyond all aid and his spirit had left the battered body. How he had pressed himself close to that body and stayed until it grew cold, not knowing what to do. The terror - the terror and the awful guilt. 

Zazu settled gently at the king's side and reached out as if to touch him, but thought better of it. He could not help. Simba must work through this by himself. He lifted noiselessly off the ground and flew towards home, leaving the king to his private grief. 

For years the young lion had lived with the knowledge that his father had died to save him. It had faded to a dim memory during his time with Timon and Pumbaa, the shock and the change of environment shielding his cub mind, but he had never quite forgotten. And now, faced with this physical reminder, the recollection was flint sharp and seemed to cut and rip at his brain. 

Even last night's discovery that it was Scar who had deliberately pushed Mufasa back down among the stampeding herd could not ease Simba's heart. What had happened was not his fault, but that made it no less terrible. 

_If it weren't for you, he'd still be alive._ Scar's words, twisted words, designed to trick and frighten Simba into the trap he had set. But still true. His father had died so that Simba could live, and however he conducted himself for the rest of his life, he could never be worthy of such a sacrifice. 

Simba rubbed his mane in the dust so the glossy auburn waves knotted and tangled, losing their shine. His claws raked his cheeks and he bit at his own legs and shoulders, scoring over and into the marks left by Scar. He hated himself bitterly, and in his anger and misery he gave himself the punishment he felt he deserved. Only the thought that it would have saddened Mufasa to see his son like this brought his destructive frenzy to a halt. The thought of Mufasa. Mufasa in the gorge. Mufasa dying - Mufasa dead. 

"Father!" Simba crouched low, massive paws tight across his face, but though he squeezed his eyes shut the images still pranced across his vision. 

"Father!" His voice, which last night had shaken Pride Rock to its base, was now the high whimper of a frightened cub. 

"Father..." Collapsing so his belly pressed the earth like a cringing dog's, the King of the Pridelands lay crying in the dust. 

* * * * *

Simba could barely open his eyes, the rims were so red and swollen from his tears. When he had nestled at his dead father's side, it seemed as though he cried forever. But in fact it was a very short while before Scar came slinking down to find him. His mourning had been cut short by the instinctive need to survive the hyaena attack and the burning desert. This time, alone and uninterrupted, he grieved for Mufasa until his mind and body were exhausted. 

A stillness spread through his limbs at last. His chest stopped jumping with heavy sobs and he began to breathe softly and regularly. The thoughts running their endless, destructive circuit through his head slowed and settled, leaving him with one fixed image. He had not cried himself to sleep as a stricken cub would; he felt more awake than he had ever done before. 

He raised his head. He had come upon the gorge at midday, when everything was bright and fierce. Now it was cool dusk. The sun sets fast in Africa, and the shadows cast along the bottom of the gorge were growing visibly. To Simba it was as if the darkness was trying to take his father from him, and he had a strong desire to find the spot where he had seen Mufasa last. 

When Simba the cub scrambled down to his father's side, the steep rock and loose scree had made him stumble and trip in his hurry. Simba the lion took the jagged path with confidence, his broad pads gripping the rock unhurt by sharp gravel. Halfway down the retreating sun left him in dark shade, and it was cold. A series of leaps took him to the bottom. 

He had barely taken in where he was during the wild stampede, yet now he found he knew the exact place where he had stood. He looked about, his four feet clumped close together, and saw again the wildebeeste galloping by. This time he recognised them for the ghosts they were, and though he shivered a little he stood his ground. His head lifted and he searched for his answer. He had to find the site of his father's death. There was something missing, something bothering him. Another lost memory. 

Here. Where the canyon walls rose steepest; just where Mufasa could not have got out without help. Up there Scar, too weak or cowardly to kill with his own paw, had sent the king falling to death among the stampede. Simba had wondered whether there would be a sign placed by the pride to mark the spot, whether perhaps his mother came here to mourn and remember. But there was no landmark, and no recent smell of lion. The others had had their time to mourn, while Simba had not. 

He found the place all the same. 

Simba lay on his side on the cold ground, in the position his father's corpse had taken. He visualised the closed eyes and the motionless body, once taut with life, now with all the tension gone from it. 

How peaceful Mufasa had looked in death; how different from the last desperate flailings as he tried to breast the wave of moving animals! It was as if he was content with a life well lived, and went satisfied to his fathers. 

Simba rolled onto his chest, then sat up. The last of the sunlight emphasised a shelf of rock near the top of the cliff. He had not noticed it before, but a jolt of recognition struck him. This was where Mufasa had placed his cub with the end of his strength. Simba had crouched there, helpless but rescued, while the last moments of his father's life were played out. 

Mufasa would have seen the ledge from here. For a moment Simba could almost see his younger self clinging frightened there. He seemed to be in two places, on the rocks looking down and in the gorge looking up, and the lost memory came back to him. His father had fallen, but as he died he had seen Simba safe. And he had smiled. 

That smile had been lost for years, crushed by the many bitter, hateful memories surrounding the day Mufasa died. Now Simba remembered the look of pride and contentment his father had flashed him, even in his pain, the very moment before his death. All his life had been worthwhile because he had saved this tiny scrap of life, the son whom he loved. So Mufasa would never wholly die. 

He had saved Simba's life twice, once rescuing him from the hyaenas, once from the wildebeeste, and now his final smile had saved his child again. Despite the chill, Simba was warmed ears to tail by the memory of his father's face. 

The scarlet sun dipped below the far plain, and dark purple spread across the sky. The stars were coming out. The first day of Simba's reign was over. Now it could truly begin. 

* * *

_[A/N: In the musical _The Lion King_, there is a scene in which Simba is suddenly reminded of his father's death and reacts with absolute horror. There isn't an equivalent scene in the film, and I think it's an experience Simba needs to go through. In some ways this is a companion piece to _End of Laughter_, which has a similar theme of dealing with grief.]_


End file.
